


A Different Kind of Magic

by thefrogg



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, M/M, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:46:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fury won't release Phil's body," Clint says, voice breaking.  "Some magical contamination bullshit, but--"</p><p>"You think he's still alive," Tony finishes for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharpiesgal (TigerLily)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerLily/gifts).



"I need your help," Clint says.

It's the first time he asks. It won't be the last.

~~~

"Fury won't release Phil's body," Clint says, voice breaking. "Some magical contamination bullshit, but--"

"You think he's still alive," Tony finishes for him.

The look Clint gives him makes him shudder, makes him glad his name's not Fury.

Makes him glad the terms _find Phil Coulson_ and _world domination_ have nothing to do with one another.

~~~

Tony takes him to the dock where the helicarrier's being repaired, ostensibly so he can clear the various armaments from the ventilation system before the repair crews run into trouble while Tony provides the cover of distraction.

He's using the sensors still active on the helicarrier, combined with those in the Iron Man suit, to build a holographic blueprint in the same lab that once held Loki's staff.

_"You'll recognize it when you hear it."_

It's the sound of sheet metal tearing, a screaming guitar chord, a rumble of thunder directly overhead, distorted by the echo and reverberation of the ventilation system, and it brings everything to a halt.

It's something that Tony damn well recognizes, but since there's _no way_ it could possibly be on the helicarrier...

"What the fuck was that?" Fury snaps.

Tony only raises his eyebrows and shrugs.

~~~

"I need your help."

This time the whole team is there, except Thor, who's still on Asgard with Loki and the Tesseract.

"Fury has Phil," comes out choked, and Clint can't meet anyone's eyes.

"He survived." Natasha says it flatly, a contradiction in itself. "I heard them call it."

"I saw him, he's on life support. He's--they don't think he's going to--" Clint bows his head over crossed arms, hunching in on himself.

"You want to be there when--" This, Tony understands. Even if he can't finish the sentence, can't say _he dies._

"I can save him."

~~~

Clint's been with the circus fourteen months when Ilya falls ill. The circus folk do the best they can; they can't afford the hospital, can't afford modern medicine, and she's old, white-haired and wrinkled, skin paper-thin and fragile, facing impending death with an acceptance that's impressive, if no less depressing to those who call her friend.

That's nearly everyone in camp. Nearly.

It doesn't escape Clint's notice that neither Trickshot nor his older brother are among that majority, or that he's one of the first to be called to her side, called to her deathbed.

Ilya clasps both of his hands in hers, grip firm enough that he can feel the tremor, feel the strength in them waning moment by moment.

"You have a good heart, a good soul, all the way down," she rasps, coughing at the end. "Do not let anyone tell you different."

"O-okay," he answers, too young, too confused to know what he's agreeing to.

"So adaptable, you are." She huffs out a weak laugh. "Share your gifts, youngster. Share them when they are most needed, share them with those you hold most dear. They can save you, Clint, save you body and heart and mind and soul."

Clint blinks at the warmth that sweeps over him at the press of her hands, the blunt nails digging into his skin, and ducks his head to hide the blush.

It's the last time he sees her, the last time she speaks to him, and he's left to figure out her meaning on his own in the years to come.

He never got the chance to say _thank you._

~~~

"There's a reason I avoid medical," Clint mutters into the cacophony of protests and confusion. It takes a minute for the noise to die down, and by then he's backed up against the wall, one arm scratching nervously at the other.

"Clint." Natasha takes a hesitant step towards him, a second, raises her hand as if to reach out, and stops, unsure of herself, unsure of her welcome. Phil's loss hit her hard too, but she's not Phil's spouse, was never his lover.

Was never Clint's.

"It's." Clint swallows hard, visibly braces himself. "It's easier if I show you," and there's a knife in his hand, blood welling over the blade dug into the fleshy part of his forearm. "I'm not--I'm just _showing_ you something. Here." He watches as Natasha steps forward, slow and deliberate, and takes the blade from him, his hand now covered in his own blood.

"You don't have to hurt yourself."

Clint laughs, a sickly, half-hysterical sound. "Yeah, Nat, yeah I do. You won't understand otherwise. Just. Just, I need some space, I'm not, I've never _done_ this in front of anybody before and I can't promise--"

Natasha backs up hurriedly.

"Don't freak out, okay?" Clint whispers, speaking practically into his shoulder. "I'll probably be freaking out enough for all of us. I don't--it takes me a minute."

"Go ahead, Clint, show us what you got," Tony speaks clearly, gently; dawning maybe-comprehension is written on his face.

Clint raises his chin, staring at Tony for a long moment before shutting his eyes, clenching his fist; more blood drops fall to the floor. 

~~~

The first time Clint shifts, it's winter, and he's cold, huddling near the big cats and wishing for a fur coat of his own; he falls asleep that way and wakes to black paws under a whiskered muzzle and backs himself into a corner in blind panic. Only the fact that his corner was dark enough to hide him as the lions and tigers roar and make a fuss save him from discovery, keep him safe until he calms enough to realize what happened.

He lets the cat's instincts assimilate, licks his shoulder with a rough tongue and settles, shifting back once the warmth of his coat soaks into his bones.

~~~

It's the cat Clint reaches for now, black leopard, easy with familiarity, a surrender to the thoughts of sun-warmed rock and fur. He keeps his eyes closed, the changes in sense of smell and hearing more than enough to deal with, the sudden drop to four feet instead of two as his center of gravity shifts, and he loses himself to the cat, the strange and unfamiliar and artificial surrounding him.

The cat just wants _dark_ and _safe._

Clint comes back to himself tucked between the back of a couch and the wall, the sounds of idle chatter, scent of relief and anxiety and surprise teasing at him. A burst of gentle laughter makes him pay closer attention, and he bends, licks the fur on his chest self-consciously.

"--and Fury totally freaked out, you should have seen his face--"

This body fits him like an old leather glove, and he's out of his hiding place without a second thought, rumbling a soft hough of warning just to make sure he doesn't startle anyone.

"Oh, look who decided to join us," Tony interrupted his narration with a big smile. He's at eye-level, surprisingly; they all are, but somehow Clint knows that it was Tony that got them all to sit down on the floor.

"Mrrp." Speech is the one thing he misses when he shifts, or perhaps the thing he misses _most._ It's probably too soon to be sure, but nobody's started talking baby-talk at him yet, so he steps forward, pausing mid-step when he notices the serving bowl on the floor in front of Tony, the bottle of water in his hands.

"Thirsty?" Tony asks kindly, like he knows what it's like not to be able to talk (he does), and unscrews the cap without waiting for an answer.

The smell of water hits hard, harder than the tangled scents of his teammates.

"It's okay, Clint." That's Natasha, and she's sitting side-on to him, one arm wrapped around bent knees, the other hand clasping her wrist, and it's a pose that's as much about trust as anything else. She's not even looking at him, trying not to make him self-conscious.

Clint can't help it, can't help rubbing up against her like an overgrown housecat and making her rock with the weight behind his shove; she reaches a tentative hand out, ruffling thick fur between his shoulderblades and he arches into it, twisting around her until he can shove his nose down the front of her shirt. He almost -- almost -- yanks himself backwards at the startled cries of his name, held in place by Natasha's arms around his torso, her nose buried in his ruff, the _"It's okay, I know, go ahead and get my scent"_ making him slide his nose down the slope of her breast, sneeze at the feel of lace before huffing into her cleavage, breathing deep of sweat and woman and gun oil that had always meant _Tasha_ and _safety_ to him, all the more potent and complex because he wasn't human.

He shuts his eyes and lets her scent take over, her scent and the sound and feel of her heart beating against the sensitive skin of his nose, lets it sink into his brain until he can't, he won't forget (he will anyways, he always does, always wants to go back again, reinforce it). Her hands smooth over his coat, down his ribcage until his own anxiety fades and his hindquarters tuck beneath him, his head pulling free from her shirt.

"There you are," Natasha whispers into his neck, and lets out a hum of pleasure when he angles his head, rubbing his cheek against her jaw in an unmistakable mark of ownership.

He wants to stay, wants to just...shove her over and let her pet him into somnolence, but he's got three other teammates to memorize, and it's only a mild surprise to find all three of them shirtless, Steve watching him wistfully, Tony and Bruce pointedly ignoring him, scientific terminology flying over his head. He knows the elbow Tony's perched on his knee, hand dangling limply a few inches off the floor, is deliberate, as is the bowl of water far enough away from any of them to not seem to be bait. Or at least, an attempt, but it doesn't matter. 

"Go on." Natasha shoves gently at his hip as he hesitates. "No one's going to hurt you."

"Mrrp." He grumbles, front paws crossing as he turns, bending to drink and clear the remnants of Natasha's scent from his palate. The paw he rests on Steve's knee after that is tentative, at least until Natasha's amused _"He'll let you know if he doesn't want to be petted,"_ makes Steve curl gentle fingers over his foreleg.

"Your cut is gone," he says unnecessarily, running firm hands over shoulders and back, where he knows Clint is healing from deep muscle and bone bruises.

Steve's right, there's no sign of the deep gash that Clint'd given himself just minutes ago, or of the injuries he'd taken in the invasion; all that's left is the almost embarrassing pleasure of contact, and he can't stop the bone-rattling purr as he shoves himself forward, swiping cheek-to-cheek in an acknowledgement of _team_ rather than the claim of ownership he'd given Natasha before ducking his head, running wet nose and fur over golden skin and breathing in.

There's something odd about Steve's scent, something _not human_ that Clint chalks up to the serum, but it's just an undercurrent (not like the acrid tang of _other_ and _chemical_ that's coming from Bruce) and he presses closer, going so far as to swipe rough tongue over scarless skin. Clint licks his chops, trying to internalize that sense of _not human_ before the conflict between instinct and humanity hits him, and he flinches, ears flattening against his skull as he tries to pull away, ducking low in submission.

"Hey, no, stop that," Steve says, gentle hands hooking behind Clint's elbows. "Tasha said you'd let me know if you didn't want me to pet you. That goes both ways, Clint. I know your senses are different right now, I know you want to trust us, and I'm okay with you doing what you need to in order to deal with it. I don't want you fighting your instincts, okay?"

Clint _could_ escape Steve's hold, could squirm out (maybe) without dislocating a shoulder, an elbow, could claw his way free, but Steve was right when he said _I know you want to trust us_ and he doesn't want to start with a fight, needs to trust _someone_ now. He can't stop the tremors, can't keep the tiny kitten-cries that are coming from his throat, can't keep his instincts from screaming at him _submit_ and bends to lick at Steve's arm, the chirping turning to to an uncertain purr when Steve lowers him enough to put solid muscle (a calf) under one huge paw. Somehow Clint has enough control to not bolt, not run for it, or maybe he's just too tired, too scared that this is his very last chance, and lowers nose back to skin, a little steadier when Steve buries the fingers of one hand in the fur over one shoulder.

"It's okay, you're fine, Clint," Steve keeps saying, and it's not baby talk, not that sickeningly sweet voice that carnival goers would use on the big cats, but a reminder that he's there, that Steve knows Clint's in that furry skull even if he's not human right now, that this is a new normal and just that -- normal.

The rest is easier, letting Steve's scent settle finally, more water, repeating the process with Tony, with Bruce who makes Clint sneeze, but afterwards, after having hands all _over_ him he's half-drunk on pleasure, hollowed out and missing the fear that'd kept him prisoner for years, and it's all he can do to crawl back to Natasha's side and curl up in a ball.

It hasn't been long enough.

"It's been almost an hour, so I'm guessing this demonstration has a time factor?" Tony asks, pulling his t-shirt back over his head; Steve and Bruce haven't bothered. "Because Clint can't talk like that and all I can think of is we get him into the infirmary, he bites Phil and we keep Phil from killing anybody when he goes furry."

Clint lifts his head off his paws and growls, lip curling up to display long incisors.

"Yeah, yeah, like you're really going to bite me with those," Tony says affectionately, waving a hand at him.

No, Clint wouldn't, but--almost an hour, it should be long enough, and he sits up, tail curled around his haunches, and shifts back human, almost in a fetal position. His right hand goes to his arm, where the gash should be, where it _was,_ and the skin there is unbroken, unscarred, only a bright red line of broken capillaries showing where he'd have needed stitches.

"You healed?" Steve reaches out a tentative hand, needing to see, to verify.

"No, it doesn't work like that. I don't, I don't _heal_ by shifting. It's--I don't know the details, and don't even start on the science with me, but it's like the magic only remembers more than the DNA for so long. So," and he takes a deep break and holds his arm out, flexing the muscle and making the red stripe ripple. "So a gash like this just...disappears in an hour. Broken bones, depending on how broken, five to six hours." He's not going into detail on the other variables. Not now.

"Magic."

"It's not a _disease,_ damn it. It's not something I was born with, it's not something--" That hollow place that terror lived threatens to choke him, smother him, and he scoots back against the wall again, crossing his arms and trying--failing--to keep himself steady, keep from rocking back and forth. "It was a gift," he mutters.

"You and Phil are both O negative."

"Thank you, Nat," and Clint's voice is shaky, and he knows he's riding the edge of shock, knows it's been too much, and can't, can't-- Suddenly it's too much, and he's clawing at his tunic, worn for the extra support, undoing buckles and zippers until it's in a careless pile of leather and neoprene, then at the white bandages beneath, and the bruises and cuts half-healed from the invasion are gone, mostly, faint traces of brown and yellow that are broken by the silvered lines of old wounds, old injuries he hadn't been able to hide and shift to heal, to _forget._

"Jesus, Clint, you're--" Tony's on all fours, practically sprawled across the carpet to get a closer look at him, pupils dilated. "You aren't hitting medical, never again, if that's--"

Clint cringes away, strangled whine caught in his throat. "Transfusion. Two pints, let it circulate, I shift, he shifts with me. And--"

"His body forgets the injuries," Bruce finishes for him.

Clint manages a shaky nod before hiding his face in his elbow, behind a shaking hand; Natasha curls around him protectively and he lets out the scream that's been building in his throat, moaning it against her skin.

"Tony, can we use your room for this?" 

"My room?"

"I'm not having the entire team invading Clint's territory, mine's trapped, and you're the only other one of us who smells normal. I'm not doing this on the floor," but she's already pulling her stretched-out shirt over her head, pressing more skin to Clint's bare torso. 

"Can use mine, my--"

"No, Clint, you aren't thinking clearly. We'll use mine. My bed's bigger, anyways," and Tony's right _there_ suddenly, hand on his shoulder. "Can you--"

"Tony, move," and Natasha matches order to action, drawing back.

Clint whimpers at the loss of contact, then lets out a squeak as strong arms slide beneath his knees, across his shoulders. As embarrassing as it is, he isn't sure his legs will hold him, and rests one arm over Steve's back. The trip to Tony's bedroom is brief, too short for Clint to take comfort in Steve's hold on him; he doesn't move from where he's set on the bed, doesn't fight when Natasha pushes Steve out of the way to strip him of boots, socks, small hands going to his belt, barely glancing at his face for permission before stripping him to boxer briefs. "Don't have to--I don't--" He swallows the rest, unable to meet their eyes, licks delicately at the finger that shushes him; there's motion beyond the edges of his field of view, and then Natasha's pushing him further toward the center of the bed, sliding him across the sheets, and he's tugging her down until they're a tangle of limbs, until Clint's got his nose pressed to her shoulder, a wall of heat closing on his back making him stiffen.

"It's just me, Clint, it's okay, it's just us." 

It's Steve behind him, then, all muscles and compassion and safety, Natasha in front, Tony and Bruce somewhere closeby, discussing something Clint should be interested in, _is_ interested in if only because he hears his own name, hears Phil's, and everything fades to white and static under Natasha' whispered Russian, Steve's strong hands rubbing steady circles just below his ribs.

~~~

The next day passes in a haze: Bruce takes the first pint, makes him eat steak, spinach, not that he'd have argued; Thor returns with a rumble of thunder, branding the helipad on the roof of Avengers Tower with the Asgardian transport-glyph, and Clint makes a quick shift to leopard and back in lieu of explanation, then to golden eagle when Tony makes the expected crack about shifting to a hawk to match his name. He gluts himself on his teammates' willingness to touch him, to let him touch _them,_ and winds up donating the second with his head in Natasha's lap, a replacement pint waiting for him when that's done, when he's light-headed and woozy, and he falls asleep with the needle still in the back of his hand, Natasha carding her fingers through his hair, Thor's strong hands rubbing his bare feet.

~~~

"We don't need to sneak," Clint mutters, because apparently he'd been so out of it the day before to have missed the strategy arguments. "I'm going to go pay my respects to those--" He shuts his eyes and doesn't finish the sentence, only able to continue once Steve's wrapped a hand around his wrist in support. "I'm going. The rest of you are going with me because I asked you to, because you know that the rest of SHIELD is just waiting for me to go sideways again, because you're my team now." _Because I don't_ have _anyone else, not anymore,_ he doesn't say.

"And we just waltz right into Phil's infirmary room?" Bruce asks.

"Half of being undercover is acting like you belong there," Natasha murmurs. "We're the Avengers, SHIELD is our _support._ They aren't going to question us until we get where we're going."

"And Son of Coul's healers will either allow us to do what we must to save him, or they will be removed." Thor slams a fist to his breastplate.

"Well, then." Tony slaps both hands down on the table. "Let's get this show on the road."

~~~

Steve pulls Clint aside while they're all getting ready to leave, ushering him into the rec room. "Are you all right?" he asks quietly once the door's shut. "This can wait another day or two, Clint--" 

"No," Clint interrupts him, shaking his head. "It can't wait, I shouldn't have waited through yesterday, but-- I didn't tell you." His face goes white under the tan, lower lip bloodless between sharp teeth.

"You said Phil was on life support," Steve says.

"The doctors are trying to convince Fury to pull the plug," Clint whispers.

"Fury's his proxy?"

"I am, they can't--they can't legally do it, but I'm not even supposed to know he's alive--"

"--and you spent most of the last thirty-six hours in shock."

"Wouldn't you have?" Clint's voice is stronger now, biting and angry. "I haven't exactly had the best week, what with Loki scrambling my brain, and making me kill _friends,_ and finding out my handler and lover of a decade was killed and then discovering it's a lie except it might not be--oh, and don't forget the only thing that might save him is a secret I haven't told _anyone, ever_ and I had to tell all of you just to make you understand, and you have no idea what--Jesus _fuck,_ Steve, what do you expect from me?"

"I would hope that, at some point, you'd remember that the first thing I ever did on the front line was go AWOL to rescue four hundred POWs," Steve says gently. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Tell Tony he needs to hack SHIELD. _Now."_

"May I ask what he's looking for?"

"You've been listening?"

"Yes, Captain."

"I need him to find Phil. And I need you to keep a monitor on him, to set up alarms, whatever you have to do to make sure that no one takes him off life support."

"Sir has blueprints of the helicarrier in his workshop, Agent Barton, if you would be willing to show him where you found Agent Coulson. I believe it would be faster."

"I." Clint swallows hard, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand. "Yeah, sure, I can, I can do that." The words are weary, spoken almost carelessly, but Steve can hear the beginnings of hope in them, the beginnings of real trust.

~~~

Clint had been right; they don't need to sneak. It's easy, boarding the helicarrier in full battle gear, tuxes for Tony and Bruce, Tony carrying the briefcase armor, Bruce a satchel (ostensibly for spare clothes should the Hulk make an appearance, in reality carrying the small cooler with Clint's blood). The few agents who dare look at Clint are easily discouraged by a cold look from Natasha, or Thor's hand dropping to his hammer.

They head for the morgue, silent, somber, focused. It's close to the room Phil's in, which only makes sense; the man's holding onto life only with the help of machinery and Fury's stubborn assholery to anchor him.

Clint doesn't know whether or not to thank him for that much, that Fury's close enough a friend not to want to pull the plug, but he still doesn't know why the man didn't tell them Phil was still breathing.

The morgue door is unlocked, mute invitation, and Clint comes to a stop. "I should--" He looks off to the side, unable to meet Natasha's inscrutable gaze, Thor's sympathetic eyes. "I should at least--do what I said I came for, don't you think?"

"Not if you're not ready, Clint." Steve's voice is well within his personal space, close enough Clint can feel the heat radiating from him. "The risk--"

"It's easier to lie if I don't. And JARVIS--" Clint stops, walking forward and resting a hand on the doorframe. It slides open, looms like an open maw, waiting to devour him. "I need to do this, and it'll be days--" _\--before I can change back,_ he doesn't finish, just steps through the door, faces the drawers with their bagged cargo. 

The morgue is quiet, empty, chilled. Clint goes to the center, stares at the wall of drawers. He can't think, can't think of anything but _I'm sorry, I'm sorry you had to die so that more didn't,_ because that's how he'd thought, that's how he'd _planned,_ and he doesn't know if Fury knew that, if Hill -- anyone -- knew how his mind worked on strategy, tactics, maximizing effect for the least amount of effort. He's just a sniper, just an assassin, after all.

He remembered Loki's control, being unable to fight directly, unable to do anything but submit, give answers. Trick was, Loki hadn't cared what those answers were as long as the answers he got got the results he'd asked for, and Clint had done everything he could to minimize the damage, maximize SHIELD's ability to survive, right down to shooting Fury in the chest rather than taking a headshot. Hawkeye never missed. Except when that miss was _deliberate._

Not like anyone would believe him. Not like it mattered, like the those icy tendrils in his brain hurt any less because he'd turned a massacre into something less, made sure that he'd done as ordered, made sure the 'carrier itself had been salvageable.

The dead don't care about that, they don't care about _anything,_ and Clint swallows hard in the silence, knowing it was wrong to come here, useless when Phil's foremost on his mind, down the hall and clinging desperately to the last threads of his life. These were his friends, some of them, not like Natasha, not like _Phil,_ certainly, but friends just the same, men and women who'd gone on missions with him, rescued him or been rescued _by_ him, and all he'd been able to do was give them a clean death, mostly.

He's long known the unfairness of life.

His spine straightens before he realizes what he's doing, hand raising as if of its own volition, and he gives a picture-perfect salute before pivoting, pushing past Tony and Steve without a word.

~~~

"JARVIS?" Tony asks quietly, watching Clint stride down the hall.

"I have the cameras, sir."

~~~

There's no guard outside Phil's room; there's no room designation, just a plain, nondescript door, electronic lock that JARVIS releases at a touch, and there's Phil, white sheets and monitors, life support machines quiet (deafeningly loud).

"Phil." It comes out a moan, and Clint's hands fist on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunch, chin tucked to his chest.

He can hear the others come in behind him, the door closing behind them.

Bruce rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'll get the transfusion started. You keep me informed."

He's learning, Clint thinks, nodding listlessly. They all are, keeping in his line of sight or making noise. Phil's got all of his attention, grey-cast skin and lifeless, and Clint doesn't want to touch, doesn't want to know what this shell of his lover feels like.

"We won't be able to hide forever," Natasha murmurs.

"Says you." Tony snorts in derision.

"We do not need to hide forever, simply until Son of Coul has been shifted. If even that is too much, this room is hardly indefensible." Thor rests one shoulder against the wall near the door and crosses his arms over his chest.

"You would fight our own people just to--" Clint can't finish.

There's no sound aside from Bruce setting up and monitoring the transfusion.

"I cannot undo the harm my brother has done," Thor says quietly, for him. "I cannot heal the injuries he has given, or rebuild the property he has destroyed. If all I can do is guard you while you do so, then I will fight whoever I must to see you and Son of Coul safe."

"Elegantly put," Steve says, his voice warm with approval.

Clint looks up, glances around, sees Thor's oh-so-very-serious expression. "You can't--Loki didn't give me a--"

"Choice?" Natasha finishes for him. "No, he didn't. Fury's not giving us a choice either, but we'd make it anyway."

"What they said," Tony says, tilting his head toward Natasha, and Thor.

"I'm not about to risk Phil by letting Hulk out in here, but...once I'm out that door?" Bruce reaches across the bed to cover one of Clint's hands with his own. "All bets are off."

Clint has to close his eyes, letting Bruce's thumb slip between his fingers so he can squeeze it like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality. "I don't," he says, swallowing hard. "Thank you."

There are more hands on him in the silence that descends upon the room, Natasha first, pressing full-bodied against him, lips to the back of his neck in comfort, then Tony's friendly clasp of shoulder, Steve's solid support. Clint can do nothing but wait, breathe in the faint-to-human scents amid the smell of metal and antiseptic, and feel the creep of lethargy and pain and chill as his blood drains into Phil's lax body.

"Clint," Bruce says, making him flinch at the brush of fingers on his chin, drag his gaze from Phil's face to sympathy. "You're shivering."

"I--" He clears his throat, feeling the rawness of the breathing tube, knowing it all too well from his own stints in ICU. "I can feel--I need to sit down," he manages just before his knees give out.

He never hits the floor, strong arms around chest and thigh, and he doesn't fight the hands that turn him, cradle him against broad chest, and it's so _warm,_ and it leaves him dazed. "Ssssteve?"

"Yeah, Clint, I've got you, take it the magic's working then?" Steve lowers Clint to his lap, a chair dragged from somewhere, and that's Natasha's arm wrapped around him, her breasts against his back above Steve's arm.

"Y-yeah, can feel him, hurts, c-cold," and he's unprepared for the drape of soft red cloth that billows over his head, tucked around his shoulders. "D-didn't th-think this would--" he stammers out.

"It's almost done, Clint," Bruce says from the other side of the bed. "You weren't expecting to feel him?"

Clint tugs ineffectually at the cape covering him from neck to feet. "N-no, it n-never, never, it d-does what I n-need it t-to, n-not what I want--"

"Golden eagle?" Tony asks softly.

"Wanted red-t-tailed h-hawk, g-got that," he says. "Would th-think lion or t-tiger, got leopard." He inhales sharply, feeling the pain in his chest intensify. "K-keep m-me--as, ask m-more." He has to stay awake, has to; if this awareness of Phil's condition drags him into a coma they'll _both_ die.

"What else?" Steve asks. "Any other forms?"

"T-tried d-dolphin," Clint mutters into his shoulder, wanting to cry, wanting to _sleep._ "G-got--"

"Killer whale," Bruce says in amazement. "That was _you_ that found that crippled catamaran back in, when was that--"

"'97, yeah, th-that was m-me," Clint finishes. "I, I c-can't--t-tell me it's d-done--"

"I want to hear this story about the catamaran," Tony says.

"T-Tony, I c-can't--" It's hard to breathe now, hard to get enough air, and he's freezing, even with the unnatural warmth of Thor's cloak, and Steve's body radiating heat like a damn furnace against him.

"It's done, Clint, I'm taking it off now," Bruce says soothingly.

"k-kay." Clint forces himself to move, trying to sit up; Steve helps him, Natasha pulls the cloak off and gives it back to Thor.

"How're you going to do this?" Tony asks. "You flat out panicked in the Tower, and the antiseptic smell is not going to help here. Not that we can't, you know, handle it, but."

"I have that covered, Tony," Natasha says as she sinks to the floor, peeling off the top half of her uniform and leaving bare skin and brassiere. "Steve, give him to me," and she holds her arms up to him, easing Clint's body until he's all but collapsed against her, until all he can smell is her skin. "Bruce, you'll have to take the monitors and support off Phil for this to work."

"H-hurry," Clint whispers into her chest. He can hear the rustling cloth, the short ripping sounds of adhesive being removed from skin.

"Almost--three, two, one," Bruce counts it down steadily, slowly, and then the ventilator stops. "Go."

Clint strains, pushing through the pain, the horrible sandpaper-raw feel of his throat, knowing Bruce has just pulled the breathing tube out, knowing if he can't shift, if he can't drag up thoughts of warmth, of fur and muscle, that they'll both die, connected as they are now, and everything whites out.

~~~

"Sir? You do realize the Avengers are on board."

Fury doesn't bother glancing back at Hill. "I'm aware."

"Are you ever going to tell them--"

"I'm not planning on interrupting Agent Barton right now. Once he's finished paying his respects--" His coat makes a rustling, slithery sound as he shrugs.

"With all due respect, sir--"

"If you're going to tell me you don't agree with my decisions in regards to Coulson's medical condition, you've made your point quite clear already."

There is blessed silence for a long moment. "The Avengers need to be able to trust SHIELD, sir."

"And you think they don't."

"Not where you're concerned, sir."

Fury turns to look at her, eyebrow raised, but she only stares back at him implacably. Her expression bears a disturbing resemblance to Coulson's.

"Sir, where the Avengers are concerned, you haven't shot yourself in the foot. You've damn well committed suicide, and _someone_ has to pick up the pieces." A muscle in her jaw twitches. "Phil doesn't count, because as far as they're all concerned -- Phil included -- he's an Avenger."

~~~

Seconds tick away, drops in an endless ocean of time, but they don't have forever. Phil doesn't have forever, and neither does Clint. Tony's eyes flick from Thor to Natasha and Clint to Steve to Bruce and Phil, and doesn't move.

No one does. No one so much as breathes, unwilling to do something, anything, that might break Clint's concentration.

He can see the shift from concern to panic to the dawn of grief, feel it on his own face despite his attempts to hide it. They hadn't known it would be like this, had known less than Clint about how his magic worked, but they knew it was two lives at stake now, two members of their team they stood to lose, and still nothing, no shimmery blur, no color-change to black.

Bruce's swallow, shallow breath and rustle of clothing are loud in the forced silence as he leans over the bed, both hands reaching out to start CPR in a last-ditch attempt to keep Phil alive, keep _Clint_ alive in the face of a magical failure--as if the magic hadn't been a last-ditch attempt in itself--

Bruce's hands never meet the smooth cotton of scrubs, but get lost in thick white fur, his low grunt of surprise lost in Natasha's soft exclamation in Russian, and Tony whips around, reaching out to steady himself on the wall.

Clint's not sleek black panther, but cloud-soft grey, charcoal rosettes, still limp against Natasha, but--

"Bruce?" Tony cuts off his own train of thought.

"Phil's vitals are strong. No sign of injury," and Tony can hear the relief in Bruce's voice, in Steve's sigh, the soft clap of hand to face as he wipes sweat from brow and cheek. "How he wound up as snow leopard--"

"--doesn't matter," Natasha finishes for him. Light sparkles on her cheek as she bends, pressing her lips to the back of the furry head against her chest, nose tucked in her cleavage.

Tony swallows hard, the _"he okay?"_ he offers rough and raw in his throat.

"Asleep or unconscious, don't know which, and don't care because he's _alive,"_ Natasha says, interrupting the constant flow of whispered Russian comfort, one arm buried in the fur across Clint's shoulders, holding him in place. The other hand carefully arranges his limbs more comfortably, folding foreleg against her body so his paw rests on her abdomen.

Tony runs a shaking hand over his own face and slides down the wall, uncaring of how it wrinkles his suit. The briefcase armor hits the ground, and he scoots forward awkwardly, half crab-walking, until he's close enough to Natasha to brush shoulders if he leans a few inches. "This okay?" Asking is a formality, they all know it, what with Clint seeking them out for touch, any of them, practically purring under their hands even in his human form.

Natasha nods, and he runs a hand down Clint's spine, over and over, stroking until the feeling in his hand goes fuzzy.

A flick of an ear is the first sign Tony gets of consciousness, and then a half-panicked yowl and rustle of cloth from above. He lets Natasha deal with Clint, looking up to see Steve pinning Phil to the bed with both hands, the _"You're safe, sir, we won, you're in medical, please don't panic,"_ drone firm and forceful over the harsh whispers of Natasha's Russian.

There's a few minutes more of struggling, tearing fabric as claws come out but no startled cries of pain, so Tony assumes that Steve has Phil well in hand; for his part, Clint seems content to saturate himself with Natasha's scent, and remains nose-down between her breasts even as his own kneading paws and soft purring rumble betray the fact he's conscious.

"Son of Coul." Everything stops at the heavy weight of power, of dignity in Thor's voice, and Tony looks up to see Steve smile, see Phil raise his head, ears swivelling toward the door Thor's still guarding.

"Good," Steve says then, breaking the silence. "You were badly injured, but you're going to be _fine,_ thanks to Clint. You're just going to have to put up with being on four feet instead of two for a few days."

Phil gives an interrogatory rumble then, half demand, half question.

"Don't give me that look," Tony says, getting what can only be a glare from Phil, the rhythmic appearance and disappearance of the end of a furry tail, and a wry chuckle from Bruce and Steve. "If you can refrain from shredding the linens some more, there's someone who'd like to see you," because Clint's peeled himself away from Natasha, curling over on himself until he's little more than a ball of fur with two legs and a face.

Phil snorts, staring up at Steve until he carefull lifts his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"It is true, Son of Coul," Thor says. "Clint risked much--" Whatever he had been about to say is interrupted by Clint's grumbling, and Tony watches, helpless to do anything but bury his fingers in the fur between Clint's shoulderblades. "Do not belittle your sacrifice," Thor continues. "You nearly died here but a short time ago."

 _That_ gets a sound of distress from Phil, one of the kitten-cries that had become painfully familiar two days before. Phil pushes himself to his feet, unexpectedly clumsy on paws, and manages to turn around, staring down at Clint, who's all but flattened himself on the floor in abject misery.

"Go on, he's waiting for you." Tony nudges at Clint's shoulder, getting a half-hearted clawless swipe at his wrist in answer. 

Phil gives another little distress call, one forepaw fishing around below the edge of the bed as if looking for a hold, and it's oh-so-obvious he isn't used to his current form, that the grace Clint's displayed the last couple days while in fur or feathers is practiced and not entirely instinctive.

That sound is enough to make Clint's ears go back and uncoil himself, and then he's on the bed behind Phil.

And Phil whirls on him, proving that the awkwardness was faked; Clint lets out a hiss and then a mutter of complaint.

Tony pushes himself to his feet, unable to see anything but a mound of spotted fur from the floor, and can't suppress a smirk at the sight of Clint submitting to Phil, one huge paw at the back of his neck pinning him down (much as Steve had done to Phil, he imagines) and grooming his face.

"It was a risk any one of us would have taken, sir." Tony manages not to startle at Natasha's statement coming from just behind him. "Clint just happened to be the only one of us with the ability to save you."

"It's true," Bruce continued. "You were on life support -- you weren't breathing on your own, it's been five days."

"We would have been here sooner, but Fury told us you were dead," Steve finished.

Phil freezes, then slowly lets Clint up and turns to stare at Steve wide-eyed, a threatening rumble pitched so low it's almost inaudible.

"Truth, Son of Coul. We did not know of your survival until Clint found you," Thor says.

It's Clint's turn to sound distressed, and Phil turns back to him, nipping his ear sharply.

"Sir, Director Fury is on his way to the morgue," JARVIS says, and Tony touches his earpiece reflexively.

"Guys, our cover's going to be blown in a few minutes. Suit, no suit?" Tony asks with a raised eyebrow, watching as Thor straightens attentively at the door, Steve turning from the bed. "Suit," he says agreeably at Phil's snarl and shrugs out of his jacket, throwing it over the back of a chair. "Natasha?"

She glances down at her bare torso and back up at him pointedly. "Avenger," she says bluntly, crossing braceletted arms over black and red lace.

~~~

It's been long enough not to be _too_ intrusive; if nothing else, Fury can speak with the other Avengers, the ones who didn't _know_ the agents Clint had killed, out in the hall while he waited.

Except--

Except the morgue is dark and empty when he gets there, echoingly silent.

"Hill."

"Yes, sir?"

"What do you see on the morgue security cameras?" Fury already knows the answer to that, knows it down in his gut, vibrating in his bones.

"The Avengers, sir. Shouldn't they be?"

"The morgue is empty, god damnit." His fist stings where he hit the wall, metal unforgiving, but he knows how hard not to hit. This is _his_ ship, after all.

"Far be it for me to say so, sir, but--"

"You told me so," Fury snaps back.

"They wouldn't have to sneak around if you'd been honest with them, sir."

"Like I said, Hill, you told me so. Fury out," and he turns off his comm, unwilling to hear her cough of covered laughter.

~~~

Tension hums through the room, suddenly too small for the Avengers now that Tony's in his armor even if the Hulk hasn't made an appearance. Yet. Steve meets Thor's gaze, hoping -- thankful -- that Allspeak includes body language.

There's a small thump behind him, Phil -- it has to be Phil, Clint wouldn't cede the high ground even if that's just the extra three feet the bed offers -- hopping to the floor, and the whine of Iron Man's repulsors charging, Widow's Bite powering up. Clint's threatening rumble was so low as to be almost inaudible in comparison.

"JARVIS, let him through," Steve says, knowing the AI will hear him, through Iron Man's sensors if nothing else.

It's another minute or two -- time seems to stretch endlessly -- before the door slides open, hissing in its track, and Fury steps through.

No one moves for a split second.

Then--

Clint screams, launching himself off the bed. Steve steps forward, grabbing Fury by the front of his coat and pivoting out of the way, slamming him bodily up against the wall.

"Don't even try it," Steve snaps, leader to leader, Clint hissing and spitting behind him, wrestling with Thor; claws screech against metal.

"I was coming to tell you," Fury bites out, smart enough not to struggle despite the pressure keeping him pinned.

"Too little, too late," Iron Man says in flat monotone. "We found out two days ago, you bastard."

"Phil wasn't expected to survive, I didn't want to get--" Fury stopped as something hit him in the side of his head.

"You know, I'm really glad you made me wear a tux, Tony, cufflinks actually come in handy," Bruce says mildly. "You're a goddamned _moron_ if you think that's going to hold as an excuse, Director."

"Cufflinks, Bruce?" Natasha asks. Steve can hear the raised eyebrow.

"Hulk likes Clint. Enough to know better than to risk hurting him in here," Bruce finishes, tone going from shy pleasure to promise of violence.

"Put me down, Captain," Fury snarls, still not fighting.

"I don't think so, sir," Steve snaps back, making the honorific derogatory. "Don't even think about it," he adds, shifting to block a knee. "Let me know when you're done."

"I _am_ done--"

"I wasn't talking to you." Steve can feel fur pressed against his ankles, shift of muscle, hear tear of leather over Clint's continued fighting with Thor -- and he'll have to thank them both for helping cover Phil's petty revenge later. "I was talking to Phil."

Fury glances down between their bodies; Steve doesn't bother. "Goddamnit, Phil, my coat? Really? Ow! Damnit--"

"Enough, boys," Hill barks out from the open doorway. "Captain, put the Director down. Please."

Steve thinks about it, thinks about ignoring the order until it's not one anymore. "You done?"

Phil lets out a grumbling yowl. 

"I don't care whether you're done or not--" Hill says, but Steve's not listening.

He can hear a clawed paw scrape across leather, then feel cheek against his own boot before Phil leaps to the bed again. "Don't try anything," he warns as he lets go, backing up as Fury regains his balance.

"Director, with all due respect, get out."

"Hill--" Fury doesn't even turn to look at her.

"Get the fuck _out._ I won't ask again." It isn't even a question -- it's all too obvious one word will have Fury thrown out entirely.

"This isn't over," Fury snaps, straightening his collar.

"You'd better hope it's over," Tony says, Iron Man's electronic drone following Fury out the door.

"Satisfied, Captain?" Hill asks, one eyebrow raised.

Steve ignores the question. "Clint, get off of Thor, please. Thanks for the diversion, by the way." He reaches out, scratches at a shoulder and doesn't flinch as Clint uses his outstretched arm to turn and jump to the bed next to Phil. The two rub cheek-to-cheek for a moment before circling in the shredded sheets and lying down, staring at Hill.

"Coulson and Barton, I take it," Hill says, tilting her chin at the pair.

"Gee, I wonder how you came to that conclusion," Tony says acidly, Iron Man mask retracting and collapsing around him; the rest of the suit follows, and he steps out of it absently.

"Honestly? I'm damned _grateful_ that you found out," she snarls. "That Clint -- I'm assuming Clint here -- could save Phil. He's a friend, and Clint's partner, and I've spent the last five days beating my head against a fucking brick wall trying to tell the Director hiding him was a mistake."

"And we've spent the last five days being _lied to,"_ Steve shoots back.

"Don't take my word for it." Hill shoves her StarkPad at Tony and waits for him to take it. "Documentation. Memos, email, audio/video. Have JARVIS verify it if you want, I know you hacked the 'carrier, I know he's in our systems."

Tony takes it warily, does--something, flipping through screens, touching his earpiece and shaking his head. "You sound _pleased_ by that possibility."

Hill snorts at the qualification. "I am." 

That gets her a sharp look from--everyone. "You're pleased that--" Steve can't figure out how to finish the statement diplomatically.

"Director Fury thinks very ends-justify-the-means. The Council is worse, as you discovered during the invasion. So yes, when you ask me if I'm pleased that someone with the ethics and ability to enforce them sticks a safety valve on our weaponry? I'm going to fucking _say so,_ Captain." Her glare is unwavering. "Like I said, sir, I didn't agree with the decision to lie to you. We're your support, and if you can't trust Fury, I'd hope you could at least trust _me."_

Steve doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know her well enough to give one.

"I'm sorry it came to this," she says, gesturing toward the furry ball of Phil-and-Clint on the bed. "I'm sorry you had to sneak around to do it."

"Wait," Bruce says. "Safety valve?"

"Why are you doing this?" Tony asks before Hill can answer.

"Because you aren't a soldier," Hill says softly, meeting Tony's gaze.

_"Is this the first time you lost a soldier?"_

_"We are_ not _soldiers."_

Steve has to suppress a shudder, a hard swallow in reaction, in remembrance; he can only imagine the kind of self-control it takes for Tony not to break eye contact just to glance his way.

"I know one battle isn't enough to make the six -- seven, sorry, sir -- of you comfortable working as a team. I know there are still things you're still working through from Loki's manipulation, and the Director's hand in things. I may not be able to stop it in the future, but I can promise you right now, I won't knowingly be a part of it. And if you have concerns about information you've been given, I'll give you a straight answer if I have it."

"That's a lot of qualification," Natasha says.

"It's better than Fury will give you. It's the best _I_ can give you without _lying,_ Romanoff." Steve watches Hill glance around the room, meeting everyone's eyes unflinchingly. "I can't give you information I don't have. I'll warn you if I have any suspicion at all about anything, but I'm not the Director. Not yet. Quite frankly," she starts, pausing to take a breath, "I'd rather put my faith in the seven of you than a purely _military_ response."

"Most people would say we _are_ a purely military response," Bruce murmurs.

"Really, Doctor? I don't know what battle you lived through a few days ago, but the one _I_ fought in had the seven of you win a war against your own team, our people, Thor's brother and a gods-be-damned alien army. The only military personnel among you is Rogers, and even _that_ is questionable at this point."

"It's not a rank," Steve snaps.

"You're right, it's not, Rogers. You're outside the military establishment, and for good reason. The same reason Tony got _out."_

"I got out because my weapons were in the hands of _terrorists,_ and I needed to clean up my mess," Tony hisses.

"And you wonder why I trust _you_ with this planet's nuclear arsenal and not the military or the World Security Council."

Tony's eyes go wide at the unequivocal support and approval; Steve can't blame him, and the more he learns about the man the less he wants to know--the more he _needs_ to know--about Tony's past, about what damaged him so much a backhanded compliment in the middle of an argument would effectively mute him.

"I didn't come here to argue with you or turn myself into another enemy to unite against," Hill says, more calmly. "I came here to thank you for saving Phil. To let you know you have _my_ support, and my permission to put JARVIS anywhere you damn well please, because I don't trust the Council any more than you do," and she directs that to Tony, still white with shock.

"I don't need your _permission."_ Tony's outrage is all but lost in the defensiveness.

"You're right, you don't," Hill says agreeably, taking the wind out of Tony's anger. "I'm not giving it to you, I'm just letting you know I'll run interference when Fury tries to take it out of your hide."

A disgruntled yowl stops anyone else from reacting; Steve guesses it's Clint protesting Phil jumping down from the bed, because he can't see _Clint_ bending enough to claim Hill with a cheek-rub to her thigh-holster, one paw resting on her knee.

"You're welcome." Hill skips the obvious target and bends enough to rest a hand on Phil's shoulder, rather than trying to turn him into an overgrown housecat by going for the obvious ear- or chin-scratch. "Guys, go home. Take Clint and Phil and spoil them rotten. It's not like they haven't earned it. Let me deal with things here."

It's not exactly an order, but it's definitely a suggestion Steve can get behind. He catches everyone's eye and nods, and as soon as Tony slips back into his tux jacket and slacks, Natasha back into her uniform, he ushers them out of the room.

He knows it's long past time they left when Thor watches Clint hesitate after jumping off the bed and scoops him up, draping him over his shoulders like an overly exotic shawl.

Clint doesn't even flinch in protest, just lets his tail curve gently around Thor's upper arm and rubs cheeks before letting his eyes roll shut trustingly.

~~~

The next three days are almost surreal, Clint spending most of it luxuriating in the simple pleasures of being a cat: sprawling out over anyone providing a lap, even if he does make sure they're on the couch or loveseat before demanding attention; getting distracted by anything that moves quickly enough to arouse his current hunting instincts, like Tony fidgeting with a pen (Tony learns not to the third time he winds up on the floor with a hundred fifty pounds of snow leopard standing on his chest -- at least not _on purpose_ \-- after that the whole team winds up in the gym at one point or another, being pounced on or throwing things to be pounced on); sleeping, whether curled up with Phil, a furry puddle on his own, or tangled up in sheets with anyone who leaves their door open.

Staring at Tony until he wakes up under the scrutiny, panics and goes flailing off the far side of the bed will never fail to be hilarious.

It almost makes up for the fact that only Phil, who he needs to talk about more than to, and Thor, who won't understand what he needs to talk about on account of being an alien, can understand more than basic things; as much as he would like to pretend, this isn't the feline version of Lassie.

Though being able to rescue someone from a well might be nice at this point.

Phil, on the other hand--

Phil is more like his human self, restrained, dignified where Clint doesn't mind looking like a pleasure-drunk idiot falling over under Natasha's gentle fingers. And definitely letting Clint get away with limiting their communication, letting him wait until they're human again, until Phil can actually pin him down and hold on and keep him from teasing Bruce into letting Hulk out for full-body petting in order to avoid things neither one is willing to face while on four feet.

~~~

Clint only knows it's been three days -- seventy-two hours exactly since he shifted, according to JARVIS -- because JARVIS tells him. And he's paranoid enough about it not having been long enough, about shapeshifting not working for Phil the same way it works for him, to get in a hissing, spitting argument with Thor over it until Tony stops them.

"We don't need to go to SHIELD just for medical support, Clint, just who do you think I _am_ anyways? Stark Industries _builds_ most of the equipment in SHIELD's medical facilities, and the Avengers' infirmary's the first thing I had finished." Tony tapped the reactor. "Let's face it, we're going to need it. A lot. And I'd much rather have medical services available at home rather than have to go to whatever hospital's available, or SHIELD."

Clint sits up on his haunches at that, curling his tail so the end covered his front paws.

"It is a most generous thing to have our own healers, shieldbrother," Thor says, more to Clint than to Tony though the gratitude is there.

"Mrrp." Clint can't help complaining for its own sake, shakes his head, and uncoils himself, crossing the room to nudge at Bruce until he pulls himself out of his chair and laughingly head for the elevator.

"You know I'm not that kind of doctor--" Bruce protests mildly, amused, voice hitching each time Clint headbutts him in the leg.

"I think he'd rather have a 'not that kind of doctor' than someone he doesn't trust." Tony sets his snifter down on the counter. "Okay, okay, everyone downstairs, you too, Agent."

The elevator is crowded, four humans, a demigod and two snow leopards, enough that Clint lets himself be feline one last time and start climbing Thor, enough that he crooks an arm and lets Clint jump up to his shoulders. The ride doesn't last long, almost not long enough to be worth the effort, but it will be weeks before Clint can shift again -- he doesn't know if the others realize that -- and he can't resist.

The infirmary level is large enough to make everyone's eyes go wide, a few startled _"Tony!"s_ getting dismissed offhandedly. It's an entire floor of the Tower, after all, Tony passes it off with, "We need the space, it won't be just the seven of us forever, and if I don't have to settle for hospital standards neither do you. My money, I'll do what I want with it, thanks."

Clint finds it's true, the room Tony shows them to is roughly twice the size of the one Phil had been in on the helicarrier, set up more like a regular bedroom than a hospital room. Once everyone's there, though, it's too crowded, too many people, and all Clint wants to do is crawl under the bed and shiver, scared out of his mind that if this doesn't work--

\--Phil could die. For real this time, and it _would_ be his fault, for daring to try the unorthodox.

He couldn't shift back. He couldn't risk it. What if his magic didn't work right?

"Won't it?" Thor asks patiently. "You say your magic works the way you need it to. You say broken bones heal in a matter of but hours, and it has been three days since you both took this form. How much longer need you wait? A week? Your lifetime? Would you waste your tomorrows on fear?"

That's the problem with being a cat, it won't allow Thor to favor words, won't allow them to overlook the reality that body language is still _language._

Still, he doesn't need the whole team here. Doesn't need them, if Thor's words be true, and grumbles.

"Very true, my friend. What was necessary then is not now."

Clint _mrrps_ his thanks, ears twitching as he ignores the weak protests as Thor herds everyone else out of the room, telling Bruce to wait outside. Then it's just him and Phil, and this infirmary room he can almost be comfortable in.

~~~

Clint doesn't want to look up, doesn't want to let go of the edge of the chair despite the ache in his knuckles as he hangs on; smell and hearing are muted now, his gear feeling wrong against his skin.

"Clint?"

He can't suppress the flinch, can't stop the gasp that catches in his throat, and then Phil's in front of him, fingers cupping his jaw and making the front of his scrubs gape open.

"'m sorry," he whispers, feeling his throat close up.

"What for?" and Phil sounds like an apology sounds ludicrous, not like he's looking for clarification.

It's enough to make him look up, make him _look_ at Phil, at the worry and understanding and love in his eyes, in the openness of his expression. He can't hold eye contact for long, so many crimes, so many lies and reasons making him forget he's not feline-flexible anymore, trying to twist away.

Phil catches him before he topples the chair, pulls him against warm skin and loose cotton curled together on the floor, whispers soothingly into finger-combed hair.

"'m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't--I'm sorry--" Other words escape his grasp, and it's like being in that fugue state again, Natasha and Steve bracketing him, but it's Phil holding him.

Phil who's warm and alive and peeling Clint out of his armor, unwrapping bandages from around his own chest and guiding Clint's shaking fingers to the tiny silver scars that are all that's left, all that's left of what would have killed a lesser man, a man who hadn't had Clint for a partner and lover.

"I'm here, Clint, I'm here and I'm alive and I love you..."

~~~

Two days go by before Clint's feeling enough at ease in his own skin -- Phil knows him well enough to tell, this is _Clint,_ asset, partner, lover, possibly the one person on the planet Phil is the absolute expert on, after all -- to even attempt a well-earned conversation. They haven't made love yet, haven't done anything more than cuddle, sleep tangled up in each other, press not-quite-chaste kisses to lips and jaw and neck; Clint's been alternating between being unable to let Phil out of his sight and unable to stand being in the same room, and Phil knows the latter is only because JARVIS keeps him monitored well enough that Clint feels secure enough to risk it, secure enough that he'll have enough warning to shift in case Phil--

\--in case Phil was wrong, in case Bruce was wrong when he gave Phil a clean bill of health hours after the fact, after Clint had more passed out from terror-fueled exhaustion than fallen asleep.

They're in bed, Clint's head against Phil's chest so he can hear the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat as he has been so often since the shift back, when Phil thinks to try and ask a question, but Clint gets there first.

"I don't. I can't, can't really _explain_ why," he rumbles into Phil's skin. "No one knew. No one. And--and it's not something I can--I'm a universal donor, Phil, it's not something I would do for many, but I--"

"You almost died saving me, it's not something I would expect you to try again." Phil leaves the _ever_ unspoken, because he has more respect for Clint than to ask him to make promises he can't -- won't keep. Not if it's Phil's life in danger again, not if it's Tasha, or Tony, or--

"I don't think you needed two pints," Clint says after a long pause. "I was, I was _aware_ after the first, the second--"

"Thor mentioned the magic works how you need it to."

Clint shrugged. "It's saved my life more than once. It saved yours. I don't know what else--"

"Why didn't you tell me, instead of spending the last ten years trying not to go to medical?"

Clint freezes in place against him, even the hot gust of breath stopping. That's the big question then, that's what Clint's afraid of now.

"Breathe, Clint, I'm not--I'm not _blaming_ you." Phil has to get this right. "The magic, the shapeshifting, the--what you did to save me, what you risked, that's--that's your choice, I'm not _mad_ at you."

The choked laugh almost tickles. "I hear a _but_ in there somewhere."

"Would you just--tell me you need to spend some time in fur instead of going to medical next time? It's not that I don't like coddling you when you get hurt, it's that you'd be hurting when you don't have to. When you have other options."

There's enough silence that Phil gets worried, idly runs his hands up and down Clint's back, through his hair.

"Clint?"

"You do," Clint starts, swallows, then starts again. "You do realize that my shapeshifting is why I've been trying to avoid medical. Right?"

"Yes. You don't have to _avoid_ anymore, is what I'm saying, just _tell_ me, okay? I don't like seeing you hurt."

"I can't shift now anyways." Clint's voice is small, almost a sob caught in his throat.

"What?" Phil hooks two fingers under Clint's chin and tugs until he's looking up at him, Clint's eyes a carefully blank mask. Phil hates it, hates that Clint still feels he has to hide. "Why can't you--"

"My magic works the way I need it to, not the way I want it to, Phil. If I shift, you shift. If I shift on a mission, or after a mission, that means the team doesn't have you to give orders, or help pick up the pieces." The words are bland, dull and monotone.

"Do it. If what you say is true, if it works the way you need it to, then shift. Prove it."

Clint stares at him in shocked disbelief before withdrawing entirely.

"We're at home, in our bed, it smells like us. If I shift with you, the worst that can happen is we'll have to replace a set of linens and maybe the mattress. But I don't think I will," he adds quietly.

"You don't--" Clint cut himself off, eyes flickering away.

 _You don't know what you're asking,_ Phil finishes for him silently. Maybe it's selfish, maybe he doesn't understand. But maybe-- "Trust me? Just. Just try." He doesn't add a _for me,_ doesn't reach out to touch, doesn't try to bridge the distance Clint's put between them.

"Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try," Clint whispers into the sheets, bleak and empty, and then there's a blur of skin and fur and the black leopard form the others had told Phil about is getting tangled in the sheets.

Phil lets Clint thrash for a moment, seeing as he apparently has enough control post-shift not to pop his claws. Then-- "Clint."

Clint lets out a small snarl and then freezes, tipping over on his side as his ears swivel toward the sound of Phil's voice.

"See? You're--gorgeous," Phil says, because when _isn't_ he, even coming home half dead from an op, because half dead is still _alive,_ beautifully and gloriously _alive._ "And I'm still human." The purr under his hands is broken, loud, painful in the pauses Clint takes to swipe that sandpaper-rasp tongue over his wrist, and he is still breathing too fast in panicked relief, but--

"I don't think we shift together if I'm awake." Phil has to smile at Clint's snort of disdain; his expression even in this form clearly reads _Duh._ Clint doesn't protest, doesn't pull back when Phil drapes an arm over his shoulders, just licks a pink stripe up Phil's throat when he presses his lips to a furry forehead. "You can stay like this tonight, I don't mind--" but there's another blur of fur and skin, and Clint's pushing him over on his back, a comedy of errors as his legs get trapped in the sheets, in the sweatpants twisted around his legs. "Hey, hey--mmph." The rest is lost in Clint's mouth.

"Phil, Phil--" Clint's all hands and desperation, mouthing at his throat and wrestling with his sweats, Phil's. 

"I'm here," Phil whispers back, gentle fingers running over Clint's shoulders, feeling muscle pull and flex as Clint strips them of clothing. 

Clint's hard and trembling when he sprawls over Phil's chest again, hips grinding a little, not demanding, not yet. 

Phil threads fingers through Clint's hair, pulling him back and up and into a kiss, swallowing down his moans. His free hand slides down Clint's back, curving over the swell of his ass and grips hard, getting a full body shudder and answering fingers digging into his hip, his shoulder where Clint is clinging to him like he might disappear. "What do you want?" Phil murmurs in Clint's ear, voice rough. "You want to fuck me, want to go so deep neither of us know what belongs to who? Want to ride me?" His breath catches, and he nips at Clint's ear, getting an answering thrust of hips against him; there's enough precome between them to make it easier, and Phil knows it's only a matter of time. They don't need more than this, more than skin-on-skin and a voice in Clint's ear. "Want to show off all those muscles you only let me touch? Manhandle me, get me at just the riiiight angle so you're all fireworks inside," and the grinding is rhythmic now, a steady push-slide, Clint suppressing his own gasps and grunts only because Phil's words are soft and he doens't want to miss any. "I could blow you, suck you down and swallow everything you have to give me, you know how good I am at that, how much you like it, how much I like it--"

He has to pause, has to breathe through the feel of teeth in his shoulder, and it is teeth, he can feel lips pulled back, hot breath panted into skin, and it hurts, but it's so good, so fucking good. He never thought to wonder these last two days, never thought to ask if Clint had any instinctive holdovers, if there were leftovers from a shift-- "You want me to roll you over and pin you down, take you on all fours with your ass in the air, ride you hard?" His shoulder is going to feel like raw meat in the morning and damned if he cares. "Fuck you raw until you can't help but come all over the sheets and you can't hold yourself up, much less me? Want me to leave you a trembling wreck while I spread you open and eat you out, until you're so sensitive you can't tell whether you want me to stop or want to feel my tongue in you forever?" There's no way he can do any of it, any way he can follow through with his filthy promises, not with Clint pinning him to the sheets-- "I've got enough ties here to serve, I could tie you down and have you at my mercy--" and that's enough, wet heat spilling between them, Clint whining through his teeth, and Phil lets himself follow, a few jerky thrusts of his own hips and all he can manage is a ragged _"love you, love you so much, Clint, god,"_ into sweat-damp skin.

Clint's weight is a solid wall of muscled warmth and life, comforting and comfortable even with the sticky mess between them. Phil lets Clint, lets them both pant to a half-doze, Clint nudging and lapping gently at the bitemarks on his shoulder every so often, before squirming a bit, reaching down to snag discarded sweats with a _"sorry, just want to--"_ and wiping them both down. Clint gives a twitch of aborted interest, eyes opening to slits at Phil's huff of amusement. "Go to sleep, Clint, I'll still be here in the morning," he promises, tossing the soiled pants to the floor.

"Love you," Clint murmurs into Phil's neck, and from the wave of heat over his skin, Phil knows Clint's oblivious to the _"love you, too"_ he whispers back.

~~~

Epilogue

"You got me presents? Aww, you shouldn't have," Tony says, not bothering to hide the laughter in his voice. 

"Shut up and open your presents like a little kid with some _manners,_ Tony." Steve pokes him in the shoulder, but he's got a huge smile on his face anyways, and why not? It's Tony's birthday.

The public party was typically Tony -- huge, loud, gorgeous women and hot men in abundance, liquor flowing freely and all the big names who want the chance to hobnob with the Avengers, with one of the richest (and smartest) men on the planet.

This one, the one where it's just them and a handful of close friends -- Pepper, Rhodey, Darcy and Jane, of course, and Sitwell and Hill from SHIELD -- is just good food and cake and the bots, free from the workshop for the evening, making a mess as per usual, and all the more meaningful for all that.

It's surprisingly not hard to buy gifts for someone who can afford anything he wants -- the team sticks to things Tony wouldn't think of, things he wouldn't buy himself because they're childish, children's toys, kits he might have been given by an attentive parent (and they know by now that he hadn't had them, and that the end product would be so much more...modern than what's on the box), mechanical models and dioramas that don't require wiring, but a steady hand and the kind of precision it takes to build and maintain the Iron Man armor.

The small, self-published booklet of coupons with things like "Get out of paperwork free" from Coulson and Hill gives Tony the hiccups he laughs so hard.

Clint goes last, and from the looks on several faces -- the Avengers', at least -- it's something they all know about. Clint's nervous as he sets the box down in front of Tony and backs up, one hand hooking the other elbow, and Natasha nudges him in silent support.

"That bad, is it?" Leftover humor and contentment warm Tony's voice, and he's relieved to see some of Clint's anxiety fade with a shrug before he turns his attention to the box.

"Have to wait and see, I guess," Clint says with a ghost of his usual smirk.

Paper falls away under nimble fingers, and Tony freezes, recognizing the insulated cooler, the biohazard labels. "I-- _Jesus."_

"You don't have to--" Clint says quickly, and Tony shoots to his feet, Steve catching his chair before it crashes to the floor behind him.

"No, no you don't, you don't--come here." Tony doesn't let him, closing the distance too fast for Clint to respond and pulls him into a full-body hug. "You--thank you, this is--this is--"

"I have _lived_ for the day when the great Tony Stark is struck speechless." Phil raises his glass in toast.

"Fuck you, Phil," Tony mutters into Clint's shoulder, but he's laughing, and finally, finally Clint's arms are coming up, returning the hug, fierce and strong.


End file.
